


Tea

by naanie



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dream Sex, Furniture, M/M, Martin loses it, Mild Kink, Pining, Prostate Massage, Swearing, Tea, just go with it, maybe doesn't make sense, sex tea, what is happening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-25
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-02 20:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,034
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21167540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/naanie/pseuds/naanie
Summary: Tea - of unknown origin and capabilities - and Jonathan Sims seem to consume much of Martin Blackwood's life, both during the day, and at night.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello everyone; I'm a long time listener of Magnus Archives, and this is the very first Jon/Martin I've written. It was inspired by how heavily tea is featured in all the other Jon/Martin stories I've read on ao3. This takes place during the Tim and Sasha era.

Martin has a lot of time to stare at Jonathan Sims without being noticed. Call it a talent, he thinks wryly. He’s convinced himself he doesn’t mind - that much - since it gives him all the time he needs to study the archivist’s face, the way his brow scrunches up, how he holds his pencil against his lips while he’s thinking of what to write, the way his fingers run through his thick, wavy hair absentmindedly. The way his Adam’s apple bobs when he’s drinking the tea that Martin brings him five times a day (not that he’s counting. Not that he brings him more tea specifically to watch him delicately hold the tea cup with two fingers, part his lips and softly blow on the surface, then gently sip the warm liquid. Martin can practically feel his own throat get warm in the process. Among other parts of his body).

He hears a throat clearing. 

“Something you need, Martin?” asks Jon, looking at him slightly annoyed.

Martin, standing uselessly in Jon's doorway after setting his tea down, feels blood rush from his lower half to his upper, deeply reddening his face. “Erm - ah -” he stammers, “no no! Ah, nothing at all. Tea okay?”

Jon goes back to his paperwork. “Fine, thank you,” he says dismissively. 

“You’re welcome!” Martin quickly replies, too enthusiastically. He remains in the doorframe for an awkward couple of seconds before turning around and returning to his desk, where he will…of course continue think about the warm liquid flowing down Jon’s throat. Christ. He really needs a splash of cold water. Or a wank. Or both. He sighs, and hears Jon shut his office door.

————————————

Martin’s unofficial job title of The Archivist’s Tea Boy continues apace at the Magnus Institute. File it under “other job duties as assigned” or rather “other job duties not as assigned but strongly hinted at.” The others in the immediate vicinity are evidently smarter than him and therefore immune to Jon’s aloof, standoffish, borderline-abusive at times…”charm,” so Martin gets the “pleasure” of doing all of Jon’s bidding himself. 

He’d like to think this whole...situation developed gradually, that it took time for him to warm to the archivist, and that initially, he was repelled by him and his cold, some might say self-centered, narcissistic, even, nature. Most everyone else at the Magnus Institute seemed to be exasperated by Jon at best, hate him at worst, and Martin was exasperated, too, but….

He closes his eyes and remembers the first day he saw him. Martin had been warned a little before working with him, but it didn't matter. Jon’s brusqueness and lack of social skills didn’t make a bit of difference in the end. Martin knew he was sunk as soon as Jon stepped into the room. Any resolve he may have tried to accumulate to steel himself against developing feelings for that man almost immediately dissolved at the sight if him. Martin remembers how his heart somehow managed to flip flop in his chest while also sinking - the realization that this would be simultaneously the worst and best thing - person - to come into his life. He knew this, all of it, from the beginning. He can’t claim any differently. Rather than fight it, rather than walk away, Martin decided to just…become fully enveloped by it and see where it lead. What else was he going to do? 

He doubts Jon even remembers the first time they met; that’s how these one-side relationships go, isn’t it? (Relationship. Ha.) Martin regularly chastises himself for even having a crush in the first place - he should be far too old for this sort of thing, right? He’s an adult, he should be better in control of his feelings, not just…letting his heart and mind run wild like he’s 14 again and has a massive crush on one of his classmates (who also ignored him - maybe Martin has a type). For something that feels immature and silly, it’s been impossibly difficult to get over these feelings, and Martin has tried, a lot. He hasn't even pretended to be interested in going on dates with anyone else, despite attempts from acquaintances to set him up, thinking instead that throwing himself into his work would help, except…it turns out it doesn't help, when the object of your affection is sitting mere feet away from you most of the time. 

Besides, he’s old enough to know that sparks like the ones he’s been experiencing the last several months don’t come very often. Why look for them somewhere else, when he has them right here? (Because they might be, you know, reciprocated by someone else, someone who’s kind, a good listener, attentive, someone who’s not Jonathan Sims.) (Right.)

Martin sighs, and decides to trudge to the library to throw himself into some books for a case he’s researching. He has to try and take his mind off of all this, if only for a few hours.

———————————-

Martin wakes up at two in the morning with a groan. He had a dream again - an exceptionally vivid one. His skin is glistening with sweat, his clothes soaked through - particularly his pants. “Christ, I really AM fourteen again,” he thinks. This is ridiculous. 

The dream, though, was not ridiculous, and he relishes remembering it. It was amazing. And he was quite lucid for it. The first thing he remembers is he’s standing just inside Jon's apartment, which he had never actually seen, so his mind makes up all sorts of ridiculous details, like a black velvet chaise longue (on an archivist’s salary?) (Shut up, downer-Martin, this is a fantasy), lampshades with fringe on them, and dozens of lit candles everywhere. (A fire hazard, but a sexy fire hazard.) (Shut UP, downer-Martin!)

He watches Jon leave him in the sitting room, then shortly return with a tray holding teacups and a teapot. Being served tea, by Jon? This really is a dream. “Sit down, Martin,” Jon says, and he does, on the luxurious leather chesterfield sofa (Yes, Martin fantasizes about furniture). Jon sits perpendicular to him on the chaise after putting the tray on the dark wood coffee table in front of him, and pours tea for each of them. Martin can scarcely believe this is happening. He’s in Jonathan Sims’ house. Having tea. Served by Jon.

Jon looks at Martin expectantly, and watches as he picks up the cup and takes a sip. “Thanks; this is delicious. I can’t quite place…what kind of tea this is,” Martin says. 

“Mmm,” mutters Jon as he sips from his cup. “You like it? I picked it up at an out of the way tea shop down some alley or other, I can’t remember.” Martin wonders what else Jon picks up down dark alleys. Jon pours him another cup and watches as Martin start to relax. Martin feels his breathing slow and his muscles unclench. “You’ve been so tense lately, Martin; I thought a little evening tea, away from the Institute, could do some good.”

“Work has been especially…difficult lately, as I’m sure you’re aware,” Martin sighs. “Though you probably need to relax even more than I do.” He drains his cup and Jon quickly refills it. 

“About that…”

At this point, three cups in, Martin feels decidedly mellow, and as though he is becoming one with the warm leather beneath him. Jon gets up and sits next to him - very close. Their arms touch. Jon looks down as he talks. “It has been really hard, on me, on you, on all of us. I feel responsible.” He pauses. “It’s my fault.”

“Jon, no -“

“It is, Martin. And…there’s not much I can offer, in the way of…relief. I…can’t help us off the train at this stage.” Hearing this even though it's in a dream state makes Martin feel better. Dream!Jon is good at openly talking about his feelings, and thinking about how his actions impact those around him. (These are the kinds of things Martin dreams about - good communication skills.) Jon continues, “But,” he turns and touches Martin's arm, as Martin looks up and finds himself dangerously close to Jon’s face, “I can make the journey a little more enjoyable.” 

Martin tries to stifle a groan during this very intimate moment but can’t help it. “Jon. I - thank you. I…think? you’re trying to seduce me, but that metaphor was terrible.” He studies Jon's face, how the flame light flickers over his olive skin, his lips dark pink, wet, and parted, eyes focused on only him, awaiting an answer, as though he didn’t hear what Martin said. “Oh fuck it, let's go.” 

In real life, Martin’s heart would have been beating so fast at this point that he would probably pass out, but thanks to dreamland and magic tea, he keeps his cool as Jon smiles and climbs over to straddle him on the sofa. He feels the warmth of Jon’s thighs encircle his lap, and Jon’s cock brushing against his through their trousers, making him close his eyes and exhale breath he didn’t know he was holding. Jon lifts Martin’s head, hands on his pink cheeks, and holds him there until Martin opens his eyes, and can see - Jon’s whole universe, reflected back at him, through his shining dark brown eyes. It was himself - it was Martin, and it was love. 

Martin feels tears start to form as he sees, in Jon’s very soul, what he means to him. He instantly forgives Jon’s cheesy metaphor. “I want you, Martin Blackwood,” Jon whispers, before closing the gap and lightly pressing his lips against Martin’s.

Martin has dreamed about kissing Jon many times (*many times*) and he never tires of it. This time is particularly good, though. Just as Martin gets used to the shock of Jon’s soft lips on his own, Jon pulls him even closer in so there’s no gap between them - he can feel their hearts beating together, Jon’s legs trapping him willingly on the sofa, his lips soft and insistent, hands around his neck. Martin gently runs his fingers through Jon’s thick, dark hair to get even closer to this unknowable man, so that he might fully know him, know every part of him. 

Their growing erections strain under their trousers; every slight adjustment Jon makes is another tiny agony of pleasure. Jon moves away a little, still kissing him, and starts undoing the buttons on his shirt. “Should we - “ Martin whispers breathlessly, motioning towards the bedroom. 

“No,” Jon says, quietly but insistently, “I want you on my velvet chaise. Naked.” Martin’s cock strains even further hearing the soft demand; he begins to feel light-headed as a significant portion of the blood in his body continues flowing to his groin. Jon palms him through thin layers of cotton, smiling wickedly as Martin lets out a moan. 

“Well then,” Martin says, after swallowing hard, “I’d better help you.” Jon climbs off of him so Martin can get fully undressed, under Jon’s intense gaze. Martin hasn't been naked in front of very many people, and is a bit self-conscious of his body, but the way Jon is looking at him as he takes clothes off, as though Martin is a giant sticky toffee pudding he wants to devour, encourages him. He feels wanted, desired, maybe for the first time in his life. His past experiences with lust were usually tied up in someone else's shame, in the dark, never out in the open like this. He can see brazen desire reflecting back at him in Jon's eyes as he stands awkward and naked in front of him, not sure what to do next. 

Jon stands up from the sofa and puts his hand on Martin’s shoulder. “You're perfect,” he whispers. Martin closes his eyes and shivers a little. Jon starts removing his own clothing, letting Martin watch and enjoy the show, wicked look in his eye. Tease, he thinks. Jon's a bit scrawny - evidently man cannot survive on tea and biscuits alone, though Lord knows Jon has tried - but he’s confident and assured as he watches Martin watching him. Martin subconsciously licks his lips as Jon slowly lifts his shirt over his head and removes his trousers; he keeps his pants on. (Even in his dreams, there are evidently some lines Martin’s mind is unwilling to cross.)

Jon steps over to Martin, close enough for their erect cocks to brush against each other, even through Jon’s shorts, causing Martin to close his eyes and grip Jon’s shoulders. He can't get close enough, though he tries. Jon touches Martin’s chest and gently walks him back to the chaise behind him. Martin lays himself on it, and Jon adjusts his arms so they’re above his head, then ties his wrists together with a black ribbon. “Probably just another regular night in the Sims household,” Martin says, half-jokingly, in a failed attempt to feel less awkward. All this fuss over little old him. 

Jon’s eyes immediately shoot down to his to make eye contact. “No. Just you, Martin.” Blood rushes to Martin's face again and he can't take it; he looks away. “You’re the one I want. Always.”

Jon steps back to admire his handiwork - a naked, fully erect Martin Blackwood splayed on his black velvet chaise longue, hands tied together, waiting for him. Helpless. Martin is as exposed as he's ever been, but feels safe in Jon’s hands. He trusts the other man implicitly. The look in Jon’s eyes is pure love reflected back at him.

Martin’s erection is starting to hurt - he’s been hard all evening, but really, he's been hard for Jon for years, and watching a nearly-naked, erect Jon watch him, without being touched, is getting more and more difficult. He’s leaking pre-cum, and isn’t sure how much longer he can take this. “Jon - I - please.” 

Jon walks over and kneels down. “What do you want?” He whispers in Martin’s ear, “What do you need?”

“I -“ Martin pauses to savor the moment. He's been waiting for this question for so long. “Please, Jon, I need - you. I need you.”

Jon leans in for a kiss while reaching tentatively for Martin’s painfully hard cock; the first touch, after several intense minutes (was it only minutes?) without, makes Martin groan into Jon’s lips and he kisses him harder. He needs to touch him, but his hands are restrained. He’s at Jon’s mercy. Maybe Jon is feeling merciful tonight. 

“I want to touch you,” he whispers. 

“Not tonight,” Jon responds. “This is only about you. It is your dream, isn't it?”

“I suppose you're right,” Martin says.

With that, Jon puts a small amount of jojoba oil in his hand, which had magically appeared from under the chaise, warms it up between his palms, and gently takes Martin’s cock in hand. Feeling the light grip of all Jon's fingers, covered in warm oil, completely taking hold of him, Martin can't help himself from crying out. It feels so deeply good, better and different from him just doing it himself. He tries to take deep breaths so he can focus on not spurting then and there as Jon starts working him up and down, and just when he thinks he has a handle on it, Jon puts his finger from his other hand near Martin's mouth. Martin instinctively opens, and takes Jon's finger to the hilt in rhythm to the activity going on below. Jon has a question in his eyes, and Martin nods. “Y-yes, yes, Jon.” 

Jon kisses him on the mouth, then finds his hole with one hand, and continues to slowly work his cock with the other. He gently inserts the tip of his finger into Martin’s warm tightness, and Martin almost loses control right then. He uses all of his remaining willpower to hold on for just a few more strokes, but has no idea what he’s in for. Jon looks at him wickedly before slowly, so slowly, sliding his slicked finger all the way in and beginning to manipulate it just so to stimulate Martin’s prostate gland. 

Martin nearly screams in pleasure when Jon's finger touches just the right spot inside him; his eyes shoot wide open, and he's gasping and gaping at Jon as though he were a sexual magician. Jon keeps going, beckoning and stroking, never breaking eye contact, and Martin soon has the most powerful orgasm of his life. 

—

He comes to with a blanket placed over him and his hands untied, come wiped away from his stomach, and a tray of freshly-brewed tea on the table. Jon is sitting on the couch smirking. “That took a bit to recover from, didn’t it?” he asked with a raised eyebrow.

Martin just stares at him for a bit before replying, “You…have no idea.” 

Jon hands him his clothes and sips his tea while Martin dresses. 

“I…there’s no way I can even attempt to reciprocate that. But I’d like to try,” says Martin.

“You don't need to,” says Jon. “Pleasure is all mine.”

“Well, someday I’d like to make you feel at least half as good as you just made me feel. I’ll do whatever you want, Jon.”

Jon gets up and offers him a hand. “Shall we go to sleep now? You look quite spent.”

“I’d love that,” says Martin, and he follows him into the bedroom.

——————————————

Well. No wonder Martin had an orgasm in his sleep. 

He often dreams of Jon, and has taken to writing down some of his more vivid dreams; this one will definitely be described in detail in the secret notebook he keeps deep under his bed.

Martin dutifully writes down all he can remember (it will come in handy later), and then adds “jojoba oil” and “more sheets” to his shopping list. Sigh.

————————————————  
Martin usually feels awkward interacting with Jon at work (he can tell Jon finds him rather annoying; he’s not dense), but mornings after explicit dreams, especially this most recent one, are particularly difficult. He's paranoid that Jon can somehow...see into his mind, and experience just how horny Martin is all the time. How is he supposed to do things like make phone calls, organize statements, and read old books about this or that, when Jon, with those fingers and those lips, is just sitting over there? He will not think about Jon’s beckoning fingers he will not think about Jon’s beckoning fingers he will not think about -

“Martin! Tea,” Jon shouts without even looking up, crankier than usual. It will be one of those days. 

Martin gets up and sighs. “Yes, Jon.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This took me awhile (because oops I started writing another story, The Masseur, between posting the first and second chapters of this) and I'm not entirely sure about it - I did that thing where you write three detailed pages of the story and then scrap it and start over from scratch. But I am pleased with what I came up with, and hope you are, too. FYI there is no sex in this chapter. :-*

It’s been several days, and Martin continues to have dreams at night involving Jon that are so erotic he feels positively dizzy when he remembers them later. He’ll find himself at work, or walking home, or doing errands, and he’ll see something that reminds him of Jon, someone wearing a black velvet coat, a piece of black ribbon tying someone's hair back, and then he can’t help himself as he remembers everything else. It’s very distracting. He’s always been a bit of a daydreamer but since that dream last week it’s gotten worse, and even though he sleeps, and dreams of Jon, he wakes up every morning exhausted. 

Sasha and Tim are noticing, too, and are desperate to know what, or who, he’s daydreaming about; when he walks into the archives area, they often are huddled together, whispering and looking at him. He suspects they’ve even placed bets on the (un)lucky object of his affection. He thinks it's possible that even JON has noticed that his focus is slipping; he asks Martin more frequently, and more impatiently, for updates on old cases he’s following up on. Then again, maybe he’s being paranoid; it’s hard not be at the Magnus Institute. 

One afternoon Martin again finds himself a million miles away when Tim walks over and snickers, jolting him out of his reverie. “Martin. Is that page of text that you’ve been looking at for…nigh on fifteen minutes really that interesting?” He looks up to see Tim staring at him, and Sasha, too, from the other side of the room. 

Sasha says, “We’ve been watching you to see when you’d snap out of your trance, but at the fifteen minute mark I started to worry you’d become catatonic. Seriously Martin, what are you thinking about?” She and Tim look a little amused but also slightly concerned, based on the looks on their faces. 

Martin goes red and starts muttering. “Uh - erm - I - you - it’s - I just -“

“Martin! Just stop. Take a lap. Have some tea, for Christ’s sake,” interrupts Tim. 

“Is tea the solution to every flipping problem around here?” says Martin, angrily. Drinking tea has put him on edge, as of late. 

Tim throws up his hands. “Whoa whoa whoa, you’re a bit tense, aren't you?” He pauses. “Even more reason to have some tea,” he says, as he winks. 

Sasha jumps in. “We're just - worried about you, is all. If there’s something going on and you want to talk about it…”

“No, no, nothing's wrong,” says Martin quickly, then thinks, _As if I'd tell you two_. “I’ll just go get some _magical_ tea and feel better, alright? Happy?” He can’t cover the uncharacteristic sarcasm dripping from his voice.

“Sounds like a plan,” says Tim cheerfully, purposely ignoring his tone and trying to make the mood a little less tense.

Martin leaves with his mug and goes to the tea station. As much as he protested the suggestion, tea does usually make him feel better (recent dream sequence aside), but he's not about to admit that to Tim Stoker, randy man about town. _Tim probably never has to worry about people not fancying him,_ Martin thinks. How many lovers has Tim even had? He probably gets propositioned multiple times a week and has a social calendar that’s booked solid. AND he probably has an amazing couch, too. Martin sighs. It’s just not fair.

He gets to the tea station and opens the cupboard with all the teas. There’s the usual English breakfast, some earl grey, green tea…. He spies in the back a box of tea that he’d never seen before. It’s in a conspicuously plain brown box that literally has “magical tea” written on it in calligraphy. “Oh for fuck's sake,” he says to himself. This is unbelievable. The nerve of his coworkers.

Martin pulls the tea down and opens the box, and nearly falls over as he feels himself losing his footing. The smell. It smells…exactly like the one he drank in his dream, like - EXACTLY. It has that same spicy, sweet yet indescribable herbal flavor he can't fully describe. He closes his eyes and wonders if this is it, if the Magnus Institute has actually made him lose his mind, and he begins to hyperventilate. Is he even awake right now? What if this is a dream? Who…if this is a trick, who would even be capable of playing it on him? Who can see inside his head? Are his dreams even his? Is someone - is Elias just toying with him? (Doesn’t that man have anything better to do?)

He takes a deep breath and tries to calm down. “Okay on the count of five, I will open my eyes, and I will be in my bed, and none of this will have happened,” he says out loud. Trepidatiously, he counts.

“One

Two

Three

Four

Five”

He opens his eyes, and he is still stood at the tea station, holding the magical tea. Nothing has changed. He puts down the box and pinches himself, even tries slapping his own face. Nothing changes. God, he hopes no one can see him like this. 

“Right. Okay, new plan,” he says to himself. Since the universe is decidedly NOT cooperating, Martin will just have to go with this new dreamlike reality. Right. What would a rational person do at this moment? Martin tries to embody a skeptic. Unfortunately, the most skeptical person he knows at the moment is…Jon. Who he most definitely does NOT need to think more about. 

He sighs. “Okay, so _maybe_ it's just a complete coincidence that the tea I had in my dream - which had a unique smell and taste, the likes of which I'd never experienced - smells exactly like the tea I just found in the cupboard…which is in a generic box…and is unlike all the other boxes…and which I've never seen before today. Right.” Martin feels like screaming. 

He closes his eyes again and takes some deep breaths, then opens his eyes a fraction. Still at the Institute. Shit.

At this point, with his sanity clearly on holiday, Martin thinks _to hell with it, let’s brew some of this tea and see what the fuck happens, eh?_ Throw caution to the wind. He’s evidently already gone off the deep end, why not see how deep the deep end is?

He spoons a bit of the tea into a filter in his mug, then pours boiling water from the kettle into it. As it steeps, he watches it suspiciously, concerned that it might….(that it might what, Martin? Explode?)

It does not explode, or change into bright colors, or do anything other than make the water darker, as it should. Martin removes the filter, thinks, _Here goes nothing,_ and takes a sip. 

He closes his eyes, yet again. But this time he's not in the Institute anymore. He’s alone, in a candlelit room surrounded by furniture made of the most sumptuous fabrics that he could never in a million years afford, but nonetheless would covet the rest of his life. This is weird, he thought. Very, very weird. Also, he, Martin, is very, very weird. (Who else dreams of furniture?)

He quickly opens his eyes before anything else happens in that room. Does everyone who drinks this go through this? Is one of the side effects of this tea the fact that it lets you experience, in STARTLING detail, your most intimate of fantasies whenever you drink it? WHERE DID THIS TEA COME FROM? He dumps the rest of it into the sink.

“WHAT THE HELL IS HAPPENING TO ME?” he screams to no one.

What if…what if Martin somehow…no. That’s impossible. (Go on, his inner voice encourages.) _Okay, what if I somehow…manifested this tea into existence? What if…I dreamed it, then…it…appeared?_ There was some lag time from when he first had the dream to now, but then again, who knows how long it had been sitting in this cupboard? He couldn't swear it hadn’t been there the day after his dream.

Martin rubs his temples and tries to think. _But thinking is the problem,_ he reminds himself (as he continues to think). 

_Rational thought - manifest rational thought, Martin._ He decides then to take the tea back to the archives and ask Sasha and Tim if they’d ever seen it. See how good they were at lying when they deny they had anything to do with it. If they do admit to playing a prank on him...well he doesn’t know what he’ll do. First things first.

“Have a nice run around the block?” asks Tim, who is far too pleased with himself, when Martin walks in.

Martin tries to look normal. Ha. “Hey, uh, do you - have you seen this ‘magical tea,' in the cupboard? It’s…really delicious and I just want to...thank the person who brought it in.” Smooth, very smooth.

Tim frowns as he looks at the box. “No, I’ve never seen it before.”

Martin scoffs. “Really, Tim? Aren’t you the one who’s been ‘worried’ about me, saying I need to drink actual _magical tea_ to relax? Don’t lie to me, I know you’re playing a joke on me. It isn’t funny.” He’s shaking with anger.

Tim and Sasha both look a bit scared; they’ve never seen Martin like this. “Honestly, Martin I’ve never seen that before in my life, it wasn’t me!” Tim protests.

“Yeah, Martin, calm down, it wasn’t us! We noticed you’ve been a bit stressed lately but that’s all! We’re just worried about you,” Sasha pipes in. 

Martin eyes each of them suspiciously for a bit, then sighs. “Okay. I believe you. I’m sorry, I - I think I’m losing my head.”

It’s at this moment that Jon’s office door swings open. “What’s going on out here?” he asks the threesome, more than a bit annoyed. 

“It - it’s nothing,” Tim starts to say, while Martin stops him.

“No, it’s - it’s my fault, sorry, Jon, for the disruption. I - can I…talk to you for a moment?” he asks tentatively.

Jon looks at him. “Alright, come on then,” he says, with a hint of annoyance in his voice. 

Martin briefly hesitates then follows him inside and closes the door behind him. Suddenly he's a ball of nerves and feels a bit sick to his stomach as he realizes he's alone with Jon for the first time since…that night. He’d been trying to avoid Jon because seeing him was too much for him to handle. And here he is. Here they are. Here goes nothing.

“Are you…okay, Martin? You look a bit green,” Jon asks as he sits in his desk chair. looking almost concerned for Martin’s well-being. “What’s that?” He points to the box.

“Hmm? Oh. This might sound - I mean…um, do you - have you seen this before, Jon, this ‘magical tea’? I can’t…it’s hard to explain, but I think someone’s playing a trick on me and I _really_ don't appreciate it and I just want to know who it is. Sasha and Tim have denied it, and maybe it’s Elias, but wouldn’t he be too busy?” He's babbling. 

Martin hands the box to Jon to examine, who studies it and almost…smiles? He feels a bit woozy.

“Yes, Martin, I know where it came from,” Jon says slowly.

He stands up, continuing to look at the box as he slowly walks over to Martin. He stops less than a foot away from Martin's face, so close that Martin fears Jon can hear how quickly his heart is beating.

Jon continues, in a quiet voice. “I brought it in. Do you like it?” he asks innocently (or as innocent as one Jonathan Sims is capable of sounding). 

“I-“ Martin’s voice falters. He is rendered incapable of speech. Jon puts a hand on Martin’s chest, and Martin feels his stomach drop. He’s getting really light-headed now. 

Jon finally looks Martin dead in the eyes, and time stops as he says, “You have…very interesting taste in furniture.” 

Martin goes white and feels his grip on reality finally slip away completely as he falls to the floor, losing consciousness.

———————————

He wakes up - at least, he thinks he's awake - lying on his own couch in his apartment. Never before has his own shabby, inexpensive couch given him so much comfort. He has no memory of how he got home, and he’s paranoid now about waking up on couches. (And drinking tea.) This time there’s no Chesterfield, no chaise longue, no lit candles in sight. A relief.  
He looks down and finds he’s still wearing the clothes he remembered putting on that morning. That’s a plus.

He hears rustling coming from his kitchen, and his anxiety surges. He almost groans as he sees Jon walking towards the couch, tray in hand with tea pot and cups. _I’m not here, this isn't happening_ he repeats to himself. Which reality is he in now? 

“Made you some tea,” Jon says, stating the obvious. Martin suspects he will never drink tea again.

“I - you - I -“ Martin stutters. He covers his face with his hands; Jon is the last person he wants to see, knowing that he now knows his most intimate thoughts.

“You fainted. In my office. Tim and Sasha rushed in when they heard you fall to the floor, and we decided to get you home in a cab. I said I’d wait with you until you woke up.” He paused. “I think I have some explaining to do.”

This stills Martin. An explanation. 

“Jon - I - whatever you saw in my head -“

“Martin, please.” Jon kneels on the floor next to the couch. “Look at me.”

Martin peeks at Jon through his fingers, and sees that Jon is looking at him with kind eyes. He takes a deep breath, and uncovers his face. 

“I wanted it to be a surprise. I’m terrible at gift-giving. I -“ He pauses. “Martin, I know how you feel about me.”

Martin feels himself wanting to sink into the couch and become one with the beige fabric.

“I…recently discovered by accident that I can sometimes see into people’s minds, if I want. I don’t know how, or why it happened, but one day - there it was. Most of the time it just feels like interference, or a bit of radio static around me.

“But with certain people, especially with you - it’s crystal clear.”

“Oh, great,” Martin groans. He wants to die. 

“Wait, wait. I - I know it’s an invasion of privacy. I’ve learned now how to turn it off, and I try not to pry, but....The signals I was getting from you were so strong, I - I had to see. I was curious. And I saw - me. You thinking about me.”

“And you saw a lot more, I’m sure, more than you ever wanted to know,” replied Martin, crossing his arms uncomfortably across his chest. “That must be why you’ve been annoyed lately.”

“I - I was annoyed because I couldn't tell you what was happening; I thought I could control it. I was annoyed at myself, and my lack of will power.” Jon sighs. “You know I’m terrible at doing normal things, like - talking like a human being, much less sharing feelings. When I saw…that dream -“

Martin groans and tries to make himself disappear into the seat cushions.

“I wanted to give you a sign, that I saw you, that…” He stops to think about what to say next. “That I wanted you. I got you the tea from your dream as a birthday present.”

Martin slowly turns back to face Jon and eyes him suspiciously. “How did you…” he starts to ask as he watches Jon get something out of his pocket. 

“Happy birthday, Martin,” says Jon, as he hands him a black ribbon. “Please don’t faint this time.”

He hadn’t seen that one coming. Martin quickly checks his mental calendar. It…was his birthday. What an idiot he was. He almost starts laughing. He’s really lost it now.

“Jon, you don't have to -“

Jon shushes him. “I want to.”

_Is this real?_ he wonders to himself. 

“It’s real,” responds Jon out loud. 

Martin’s eyes go wide. “Oh shit.” 

Jon lets Martin think. Does any of this make sense? Does he care? No and no. “So,” he starts out slowly, “you…can read my thoughts…”

“Mmmhmm.”

“And you don’t hate them…”

“I do not.”

“And…you…actually…want to…” Martin can’t continue.

“Tie you up? Yes. Yes, I do,” says Jon, like it’s the most rational conclusion in the world.

Martin can’t argue with that. 

“Well. Well, well, well.” He pauses. “I just wish I had better furniture.”

Jon actually laughs, and it’s amazing. Martin reaches up and touches his face, and he knows he’s not dreaming this time. He can feel the warmth of Jon’s skin, the moistness of his lips, and the solid line of his jaw. 

Martin closes his eyes one more time for a few seconds, and when he opens them he’s still on his couch, and Jon's there with him. He doesn’t quite understand this - Jon will really actually have to tell him how he got that tea, because what kind of magic was THAT - but in the meantime he has more important things to worry about. He pulls Jon down to the couch so he can lie on top of him, and nothing feels more real than the faint stubble on Jon’s chin against his face, and the warmth of his lips on his own.


End file.
